And hey, it' not bad-though you do have to endure a scene in which Mickey Rourke tricks a girl into touching his, um, little Mickey by putting it through the bottom of a popcorn box out of which she is currently eating. Though such an event would not be out of place in a horror movie, it doesn't belong in a comedy, especially one that does not feature an explicit disclaimer warning that the viewer will be forced to envision Mickey Rourke' genitalia. (Since viewing it several weeks ago, I have not eaten and I expect that I never will again.)
The presence of Steve Guttenberg is, frankly, ominous. You can see by the look on his face that he fully intends to go on to star in
I'll bet every screenwriter who has ever pitched an idea about a cop who is transported back to the time of Vikings, or an animal trainer who uses his Bengal tigers to steal 200 million in gold from Fort Knox, thinks, "Wait a minute — you tell me my idea isn't commercial enough, then you turn around and pour money into a movie about a guy who finds a portal into the head of actor John Malkovich? Eat me, Hollywood! Eat me so bad!" And who can blame them for inviting the entertainment elite to eat them? I for one extend the same invitation in solidarity.
Being John Malkovich is one of a new breed of comedies-one whose goal is not to be enjoyable or make anyone laugh. Rather, they are meant to be enjoyed later, when the viewer-lying to his friends and co-workers-claims to have enjoyed the film, thereby conferring hipness and prestige.